Silver Lining

Truth is, we were all unwillingly caught up in that tempest. You just happened to be the youngest, which meant that you were either the most or the least impacted—depending on the day.

It wasn’t her fault. She’d grown up unmoored, searching for someone to cling to – then tried, too young, to create the family she’d always wanted. Yet it was too much all at once. You simply can’t know what you haven’t known. No one can. And no amount of lecturing, arguing or shared “lessons learned” can turn the tide. So many words I wish I could take back now, their taste so bitter in hindsight. We tried to help fill the gap. Tried to make it right when we were really just making it up as we went along. Still the storm surged and calmed.

You were the silver lining, from that first night when I found you standing up in your crib sobbing. I picked you up and rocked you, and you instantly fell asleep in my arms. So small.  All you wanted was to be held and loved. Every. Single. Day. And that was the easy part for me. Soon you were happy, comfortable in our new routine.

I would rush home from work to see you with those little blue eyes watching for me at the front door. You would entertain us all at dinner with your goofy smiles and baby giggles. Then it was bath time and stories. Wheels on the bus and Itsy Bitsy Spider. You and me in the old rocker. Like a kitten, you’d purr a quiet little hum when we cuddled. Then you’d fall asleep hugging your “Lambie,” secure in this new rhythm.  I’d run my finger over the bridge of your nose, connecting the freckles on your tiny face and feeling grateful for unexpected gifts.  

Time passed and she found her way. Like all of us, she now takes parenting step-by-step, day-by-day, striving to get it right. Not long ago, the topic of those five months came up. “We don’t talk about that time,” she said with finality.  Out of a long overdue show of respect for her, I said nothing. I understood that was a period of pain and insecurity for her. Yet with that broad sweep of the eraser, we were wiping away the laughter, the Wheels on the Bus, the precious way you bowed your little head in prayer every night and OUR connection, etched so very permanently on my heart. I was trying to come to terms with this in my head when she left the room, leaving just you and me.

“Mimi?” you said. “I love you.”

“I love you, too, buddy.” I replied. “Have I given you 100 kisses yet today?”

You giggled as I kissed every freckle in that magnificent constellation on your face. And then I heard it. That little purr.

-------------------------------------

“Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark,
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;”

~William Shakespeare, Sonnet 116

 

 

 

Seesters: There Were Never, Ever Better Seesters

Back in the days when Batman, Bonanza and Bewitched ruled television and Bazooka and Boston Baked Beans ruled the candy stores, a young couple in Columbus, Ohio started raising a family. I came along first, followed by three more girls—and the couple became (whether intentional or not) a kooky family of six.

 

Naturally, the four sisters tormented each other ruthlessly, tattled, screamed and cried—yet grew up to be besties. (Besties with a knack for telling the painful truth to each other, but hey—besties, nevertheless.)

Life took us in four completely different directions, molding four very different women.  We still love a few of same things, still attempt to control each other, try to avoid talks that center around politics (we’ll, most of us do J) and still argue over who is the REAL oddball of the family. (I’m pretty sure it’s me, but no one is saying it out loud.) And we still share a sense of humor that makes us snort out loud at things that no one else on the planet would ever find humorous. Ever.

Last year during a routine biopsy to remove a small bump above my eye – I received some not-so-routine results. The initial diagnosis: some kind of serious cancer was emanating from somewhere deep inside my body.  If you’ve never stood toe-to-toe looking at cancer, I can tell you that it moves into your head and instantly takes up residency with its bullying fear.  I went through six frightening weeks of every kind of medical test imaginable before undergoing surgery to remove the mole. The good news: the initial diagnosis turned out to be wrong.

But here is the big thing I (re)discovered during that time: my sisters had my back at every single step of that scary walk. And in a big way. Susie took me to each and every doctor’s appointment, rearranging her schedule to be with me and hold my hand. She brought me books on healing, fresh organic produce, stress drops and iced teas (my drink of comfort).  Megan, my youth minister sister, prayed fervently for me with her Moms’ group, put me on the prayer chain and led her precious little family in praying rosaries on my behalf.  Judy called and emailed me from NY, sent me a book by my favorite author for recovery reading and even offered me a kidney (noting that her liver was probably not much use after years of drinking red wine J).

I guess, in some ways, I’d always taken the bond with my sisters for granted. Growing up, I just assumed that everyone had that with their siblings. But they don’t. I wish I had a dollar for each time another woman has met us, witnessed our magical bond then said … “I wish I had a sister like that” or “I wish I was a Brown girl.” I’m not making this up. In fact, we’ve heard it so many times that we started donning the title, “Honorary Brown Girl” to those ladies that really “get us.”

Lol. Even when I write “Get us” … I check myself wondering how I was blessed enough to have been born into this exclusive sisterhood, even if I am the family oddball. I’ll take it. Any. Given. Day.

First Responders

There are those pivotal moments in life that unearth something you didn’t know before … about yourself … about those you love most in the world.

Eighteen months ago on a hot August night, our little family of three was headed home from the state fair—laughing and joking. We stopped at Waffle House for a cheap meal, continuing our conversation.  Looking out the front window of the restaurant, we noticed a young, 30-something man stumbling through the parking lot. He texted someone on his cell phone, then continued walking aimlessly west along the highway. “That’s odd,” I said. “Where did he come from? Where is he going?” There are no sidewalks or walking paths along that stretch of highway … no residences … and the road narrows to a bridge over a lake.  We passed it off and continued our original conversation, then paid for our meal and started home in my car.

Not a mile from the restaurant, we noticed a stopped vehicle on the bridge with its emergency lights flashing. We peered into darkness trying to determine what was happening. Then, in my car’s headlights, we saw a pair of flip flops in the middle of the road … then a crumpled body … and a van just beyond it.

Pull over!” my husband and son yelled at the same time. Both trained firefighter/EMTs, they yelled to me, “Stay by the car. Call 911.”  Then they ran into the darkness, passing the driver of the car who stood--stricken in horror--next to his vehicle, and to the young man who lay severely broken on the pavement.

What happened in that next 10 minutes is something that I think about often.  I called 911 then stayed at the car, crying and shaking—afraid to go look. I did the only thing I could think of to do … the only thing I was capable of doing at that moment … I prayed.

Tom (my husband) and Kyle ran by the driver, giving him an assignment to keep him occupied. (“Did you call 911? Watch for traffic and the squad.”) Then Kyle began CPR on the man and kept it up, despite the man’s critical injuries. With no flares or lights on that dark stretch of highway, Tom held up a lighter and stood out in the road protecting Kyle and the injured man as best he could. The police arrived, followed by the medics—although it was too late.  

Uriel died that night. We learned later that he was an immigrant from Mexico who had too much to drink that evening and, after a series of terrible events, ended up wandering down a highway. He left behind a wife and young children – some 1,400 miles away.

We all asked ourselves if we could’ve done more. After 18 months of reflection, here is my take on it:  I don’t know what God’s plan is, but I have to trust that this was part of it.  As many cars drove by that horrific scene at 60 MPH that dark night, my guys stopped to help. No one else did. Tom still tears up when he talks about how proud he was of Kyle that night – how our 19-year-old took charge of that scene fearlessly and professionally, fighting for that man’s life with everything inside of him. (And Kyle still gets angry when we even hint that we are proud of his actions. “I’m not a hero.”) 

I take a little comfort in knowing that my guys were probably the last people Uriel saw on this earth—and that he left this life knowing that someone cared; that he wasn’t alone. And maybe it’s naïve, but I hope that my prayers helped to summon all of Uriel’s deceased loved ones to meet him as he crossed over. (I know: naïve.)

I pass that spot on the freeway twice a day—and I still pray for Uriel.

There is so much in life that is beyond our control. But those pivotal moments may teach us something about ourselves … like accepting that the power of prayer may reach beyond this life and our understanding. Or they may teach us something we didn’t know about our loved ones …  like the depths of their compassion and selflessness. For that, I’m truly grateful.

Checking In and Checking Out

There is just one thing I want at this middle age, this middle place, this middle November day. I wake up with a mild migraine, one of many recently, and head to the gym to try to stretch my tired old muscles into submission so that they might release their tight grip on the back of my head. The week’s frustrations persist as I sit in my car in the parking lot trying to pick up a Wifi signal to “check-in” to one of my many social media accounts when it hits me: the only one I really need to check-in with today is God. Oh yeah. Seems I’ve lost track of Him this week, trying to make everyone else happy.

I hit the gym, then the shower and then drive west. The stores and gas stations disappear from the landscape, giving way to empty corn and soybean fields. The distance between the houses grows. The cloudy gray skies hang pregnant over the gold colored plains threatening a mix of rain, snow, drizzle or some mix of these. It brings comfort and melancholy at the same time, this cold Ohio gray that settles in for the long haul. My mind replays the week’s events for the umpteenth time as if to magically change them, but the only change is the resurrection of that migraine.

Forty-five minutes later I’m pulling into the driveway of their little log cabin where they wait at the door. I step out of the car, pause and breathe. Inside, after hugs and hellos, they lead me to the cozy living room where the front curtains are pulled back. “We have a duck,” they say, handing me the binoculars so that I may spot the pregnant duck on the far side of their pond. My eyes shift aimlessly (accustomed to staring at a computer screen), unable to see what is right in front of me. What I notice is the wind bending the pines and moving soundlessly through the tall dry grass that surrounds the pond. What I notice is the silence around me—and no one needing to fill it. No radios. No TVs. No music. No computers. We just watch.

We get in the car and head to a little hole-in-the-wall diner for lunch. The circa 1965 wood paneledinterior is covered with kitschy signs and old photos including a pin-up-girl-like shot of five bathing

suit clad young ladies from the 1940s. The sepia-tone teenage version of the owner smiles from the center of the image. She plays the piano, they tell me as I notice the upright and the chalkboard above it that reads, “Ask for the piano player … gets me outa the kitchen.”  A middle aged waitress comes over, cracking jokes about herself as she fumbles for a pen in her pocket. She smiles wide, exposing a grin sans a bottom front tooth and I think to myself: She is happy, beautiful. We eat our homemade veggie soup, sweet potatoes fries and Sloppy Joes and catch up. I share what’s heavy on my heart and Dad fidgets in his seat, uncomfortable with the burden I carry, uneasy that he can’t fix it.

We bundle up, head back to the car and go to the unsung Amish country—the one that is happy that way, quiet and unnoticed. On the drive there, I ask them:

what are your memories of your grandparents? Because I don’t know. Even at this late-middle-age point of my life, I realize that I don’t know and it’s suddenly so important that I know.  We park in front of the dry goods store and he talks us back 70 years to that dairy farm. From the back seat I watch Dad’s eyes in the rearview mirror as he recalls the soft loving arms of his grandmother, his hard-working yet stern grandfather and emotionally distant father. He remembers vowing at a young age to be a Father that laughs and has fun with his kids. “Maybe I didn’t do as well as I could have,” he starts and his eyes grow narrower in the rearview, filling up.  You were—and ARE—the best Dad ever, I say, the first thing all week I speak with complete unwavering certainty.

At the dry goods store, we buy six kinds of Christmas cookie sprinkles, candies, snacks and—from

my Dad—a painting of an Amish buggy for me. To remember this day, we all know, but no one says it aloud. Then we drive to the Amish farm for apples, wood and friendship. The wind is blowing harder and colder now.

A mother and her teenage daughter work in the garden. The gusts blow the strings of their bonnets and aprons. A dog huddles against the barn searching for warmth deep in a worn out blanket. The mother, probably my age, leads us into the workshop where woodworking tools hang neatly along the rafters and the floor is covered with sawdust. The scent makes me homesick for my childhood. My Dad asks her how she is feeling. Is she better now? Yes, she says, except for her shoulder which sometimes brings discomfort. He is in jail now, she notes when asked directly, the drunk driver that hit her and her two youngest in their buggy last year. Her son, then 10 years old, had nightmares after the accident. They are well now, she says. No resentment. No anger. And I admire her strength after mentally slipping on her shoes.
 

We walk back out to the car.  It was nice to meet you, I say. She says the same then asks, do you live around here? No. Not anymore. I live near the city now, but … I feel more at home out here. She smiles and nods, understanding me—this sister from another culture.

We drive back to Dad’s farm, me with my Amish apples, sprinkles and painting—but without my migraine. And this was all I wanted … to find God and myself again … at this middle age, at this middle place, on this middle November Birthday.

 

One Thousand Words

I was 6 years old that Christmas eve. My little sister and I had been willingly tucked in to bed early that night, in anticipation of Santa’s arrival. I remember being awakened out of a deep sleep. My parents were dressed in their winter coats, headed to the hospital. A neighbor was there to watch us. The adults talked in hushed tones, anxiety in their voices.

The next morning as I sat playing with my new Easy Bake Oven, my mom sat crumpled in a chair uncharacteristically teary and quiet. I didn’t really grasp it at the time—but she had just lost her older sister, Evie, to an aneurysm.  Evie left a devoted husband and two teenage girls that adored her. I loved my cousins, Shelly and Patti, and looked up to them like big sisters. It wasn’t until I was much older that I began to deeply consider their loss.

The years passed. Shelly and Patti raised children of their own. Shelly moved to the West Coast, Patti stayed in the Midwest. They’ve become even more like sisters to me over time. My Mom loves them as her daughters, and their children as her grandchildren. Our family get-togethers are rare, but so precious. “The girls” all talk into the wee hours of the night, laughing and crying and sharing stories. 

Not long ago, after raising two girls of her own, Patti recounted that painful Christmas Eve. I could hear regret in her voice—for those things she wished she would’ve said to her mom.  My heart broke again for her as I considered how her loss had affected her life … her choices … her relationship with her girls, Jenny and Laura.  But here is what I’ve learned from her beautiful example: live passionately. Pay

attention to the details of your children’s lives because you might not get a second chance. Every day is a gift.

Last weekend, we all traveled to North Carolina for Jenny’s wedding. It was a beautiful event that, I know, Patti had envisioned for years. I snapped maybe 150 photos throughout the evening, but there is one that stands out. One photo that is, hands down, my favorite. In fact, I can’t look at it without crying. It is a photo of Patti, taken during the Daddy-Daughter dance. It is a moment frozen in time: all eyes in the room are on Jenny and her dad, I glance at Patti. She looks back at me and smiles. Laura stands beside her. It is a snapshot worth more than a thousand words. Her smile says … there is no place else in the world I’d rather be right now. It says, I’m so happy. I made it to see this day. It says, God is good. It says, LIVE like there is no tomorrow.

 

When 'Happy' Happens

I was about 8 years old when 'Happy' showed itself in tears, for the first time. I was at the Olympic Swim Club with my friend Kay, who was also 8 years old.  I recall that we weren’t allowed to actually swim in the pool that day, because the club was hosting a “Little Miss Olympic Contest.”  Of course, I had no clue what a pageant was or even that Kay’s mom had entered her in the contest.  I simply remember playing on the ladder in the deep end and dipping my toes into the forbidden water as the girls paraded down the diving board and back. Then a man’s voice came over the loud speaker and announced that Kay was “Little Miss Olympic!”  Suddenly, I was crying so much that my Mom came rushing over to see if I had been injured. It took me by surprise because I didn’t KNOW why I was crying. Then, I realized that I was completely happy … for Kay.

I’m looking forward to feeling that kind of happy again this weekend. My precious friend, Ladybug, is getting married.  Ladybug and I became friends years ago, through a church group.  One of the first times that we met over coffee, I remember her eyes filling with tears when she talked about how lonely she was. A single mother of three boys, she’d been through more than her share of hurdles and she was just about at the end of her rope. I tried to encourage her to hang on … to trust that God had someone wonderful in mind for her.  Fast forward several years, and here we are. 

One day during the wedding planning process last year, she expressed concern over the idea that maybe no one would show up for her big day. But I knew better. People want more ‘happy.’

Seems like most of us are just trying to keep our heads above water on any given day.  We deal with bills, car troubles, more bills, taxes, illnesses and work. We’re overcommitted, overburdened and overly exhausted.  We no longer have to wait for our daily dose of bad news from the 6 pm TV broadcasts, we get the doom and gloom streamed to us on the radio, our phones, through Twitter, Facebook and a myriad of other channels ... when all we really want is a little bit of ‘happy.’

Happiness is the package that comes with HOPE at its creamy, sweet center. Some of us look for those magic glimpses of it in goosebump-producing auditions on shows like X-Factor or American Idol. Sometimes we get a taste of it when our kids achieve a milestone as a result of hard work.  But overall, it can be pretty elusive.  Add to that the fact that we are egocentric beings and it becomes a rarity to REALLY feel completely happy for someone else. ("When is it MY turn?!")  I know I struggle with this kind of selfishness way, way too much.

My Mama has a saying that goes like this, “They have to know how much you care before they care how much you know.”  And I KNOW that Ladybug cares for me. She’s listened to me whine about stupid stuff many times. She’s loved me unconditionally when I was at my worst (and I've had far too many of those days than I care to recount). She’s been my best friend in every sense of the word.  So I am over-the-moon with Happy for her, this week.  On Saturday, I’m going to dance like a drunken fool and toast my precious friend, her new husband and the fact that she finally has a big, well deserved, fistful of Happy!

This Thing Called Love

We adopted a new puppy. I know what you’re thinking. Exhausting, right?  Nine days into this, I keep asking myself, What were you thinking!?  Like most puppies, she is a ball of energy that seems to waiver between adorable one minute and hell-bent on relieving herself every other minute. Inside the house.  (Sigh.)  

I found it a little comical when we took her to the vet yesterday and the vet asked, “How long have you had her?” My husband started to answer, “about two weeks.” One week, Honey. One LLLLLOOOONNNNGGG tiring week that feels like a month. Seven solid days of waking up to find a cute dog that relieved herself too many times in a crate, needing a bath. At 6 am. Outside. Every. Single. Morning. That comes with the added joy of cleaning the cage, mopping/bleaching the kitchen floor, etc. All before breakfast.  Work days are especially fun (considering you have to add this new routine into the existing one). 

But then that little puppy (Abbie) curls up in a ball at your feet with her tiny white belly exposed and snores, casting her magic spell and you remember that this, too, shall pass.

We’ve been through this before. In our 22 years of marriage, we’ve had dogs, cats, a baby and grandbabies. We (mostly) knew what to expect. But then something really UNEXPECTED happened with Abbie. She attached herself to Tom … and he attached himself to her.

Let me explain why this is odd. My husband is former Army. He’s a hardworking, blue collar guy. In the past, he was ambivalent about our pets. They were pretty much my responsibility. He was NOT at all likely to clean up after them.  But there is something about Abbie that has him wrapped around her little paw … from the moment he met her. She jumped up on his lap at the pet store and acted as if she'd finally rediscovered the mother ship. Or the father ship, in this case.

He talks to her in a sweet little voice and calls her “baby.” (Shhhh. Don’t tell him I told you.) He lets her sleep on his lap on the (once) forbidden-to-pets sofa. And he carries her everywhere.

Yesterday, we ventured out to the local farmer’s market with Abbie. Tom carried her around under his arm, enjoying a great deal of attention from fellow shoppers who came up to see her and to chat with him. At one point, I looked up from shopping for veggies and was overwhelmed with love for him. His smile was a mile wide. He was beaming with pride over this puppy—who was forcing him out of his normally shy, comfort zone.  “I like our town and the people here,” he said, as if we’d just moved here. In fact, he'd just overcome his shyness to meet a few of them. He was happy. I was happy.

Suddenly, the ongoing stresses of overdue bills, jobs, car issues, house projects and all the petty stuff that weighs us down on a daily basis had been pushed aside, all because of a tiny little corgi toddler with a big attitude and big brown eyes.  We were living in the moment, grateful for this tiny creature and life, in general. Who could’ve imagined?

Turns out old dogs can learn new tricks. :)

Palpable.

I consider myself to be a person of faith, yet it took me years to identify the palpable force behind the amazing things that happen in my life.

In fact, it was my younger sister who said (about our Mom), “She’s so in tune with the Holy Spirit.” I think about that force a lot. I think about it when I’m having a particularly bad day and a certain one of my friends calls (every time) and says, “Are you okay, sweetie? Something told me to call you.” Whoooaaa. How does she DO that?

I think about it after something worrisome keeps me awake at night and I finally give up trying to control it, say a little prayer and fall asleep. Then I wake up the next morning and it has been resolved.

You may call this coincidence or intuition, but it's MUCH bigger than that. I’m no expert at this stuff, but I’ve come to understand that the Holy Spirit is behind all things creative. It is inspiration. It is music, art, poetry, photography, dance and creativity. It is what moves us to tears of joy and compassion, to do humanitarian work and to fall in love. It moves us to be HEARD and not HERDED. (I saw that on a bumper sticker today. Love it.) It is what makes us march to the beat of our individual drummers.

But there are also dark forces that battle all that is good. Unfortunately, they too are palpable. Sometimes they manifest in the weird, like during a full moon when all the crazies come out. (Don’t believe me? Ask someone who works in the ER.) Other times, those forces are …well, just scary.

This afternoon, I felt something akin to a cold breeze of these forces blowing through. Within 10 minutes, I received some dark and disappointing news from three different and unrelated sources. (Two via unrelated text messages from different people I rarely hear from.) Coincidence? I guess I figure if you have to stop and question it, it’s more than coincidence. I won’t go into detail about those incidences except to say that I could FEEL the tide of my day change. And for the first time, I took stock at that moment. Deep breath. Sigh. Send up a little prayer for help. Search for the right words (and pray that I might be able to get my ego out of the way before I respond). Let go.

I know. You’re thinking I’m one of those new agey, touchy-feely, odd and freaky chicks. Or, at the very least, soapbox preachy. Maybe. But here’s what this all boils down to:

The older I get, the more I realize how very little control we have over anything. Or anyone. Some days feel like an epic battle between good and evil where all we can do is stand by and watch helplessly. My first instinct on those days is to run home, get into my jammies and hide under the blankets. (And maybe watch a Jane Austen movie, disappearing into a more genteel era.) But then I remember that my job … OUR job … is to trust. And to try and stand strong for all that is good for each and every sacred soul. There is a line from a great song that reminds me to hang in there:

“This is my Father’s world, oh and let me never forget, that though the wrong seems often so strong, God is the ruler yet.”

Report Card: #1TinyActs

Funny how things rarely turn out how you plan. Sometimes, it is the plan that turns YOU. I could say that about the #1TinyActs experiment—which I’m midway through. My original goals were (1) Do [at least] one tiny act of kindness per day through Christmas and (2) Inspire others to do the same.

I am proud to report that I’m (pretty much) on task for the daily #1TinyActs. There have been a few long days when most of my waking hours were spent on my computer. On those days, when I don’t work in some little act of kindness, I usually just double-up the next day.

I’ve personally tracked 37 #TinyActs since I began this. These include little things like saying “yes” when the pharmacy clerk asks if I want to add $1 donation to my tab for Juvenile Diabetes research ... or dropping some change in the Salvation Army red bucket. Freebie acts have included taking soup to an elderly friend or letting a few extra cars go ahead of me in traffic.

But here are the BEST things that have come from this endeavor (so far) …

1) Ripple Effect. Three of my friends have contacted me on several occasions (via FB, Email, etc.) to let me know THEY are working on their own #1TinyActs. For me, this is like Christmas … the best gift EVER! It means THEY keep this "To Do" on their radar daily and look for #1TinyActs. Globally (or community-wide, anyway) it means they are impacting other lives. And that ripple effect is what this is all about. Thanks guys!


2) Left Hand as 007: Secret Missions. I struggle with reporting these #1TinyActs because I’m a big believer in Matthew 6:3: “But when you give to the needy, do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing.” It feels icky to do something even remotely kind or noble and boast about it. Kind of negates the entire effort, don’t you think? After all, the entire point of this exercise is to serve … to do something OUTSIDE myself. Most definitely NOT to promote myself. But this circles back to the idea of trying to inspire others. If we do everything in secret, how might we inspire others to dip their toes into the #1TinyActs pool? So maybe we’ll make an allowance to report through the holidays, huh?


3) Opportunity knocks. Once I opened myself up to the idea that I would need to look for 1TinyAct opportunities every day, it’s like the floodgate was opened. And it was/is WONDERFUL! Honestly, I’m amazed at how many opportunities are placed right in front of me. There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t find myself stopping and thinking, “OH! This is where I’m supposed to help! Thank you, God!” Really, really cool.


4) More than I need. This endeavor has reminded me to stop feeling sorry for myself. I am infinitely blessed and, therefore, I’m obligated to help wherever and whenever I can. I can’t always give money, but I have plenty of time and compassion.

For one of my friends (who has been secretly sending me her #1TinyActs), the project has offered her the gift of self-reflection:

“The TinyActs thing is not making me do nice things, it is just reminding me that I do nice things often, but don't realize it. It is making me more aware that I do think about others more often than I realized.”

Won't you join us? We may be small, but we are mighty. #1TinyAct

1 Tiny Act

Recently, in a far away city I spent a few lonely nights in a hotel room having a sort-of midlife crisis.

I could blame it on the fact that it was just me and the cable television (enough to make anyone question life as we know it). But here is the real reason: I’m about to have another birthday and I still don’t know what I’m doing here. I go through the motions of my life but I’m not sure I’m making a difference to anyone. Do you ever feel like this? Do you ever just want to shake the “me” and tap a bigger, better “us?”

I want to make an impact, but I’m not exactly sure how to go about it. I’m not rich, so I can’t donate lots of money to charity. Starting an orphanage in some remote corner of the world doesn’t really seem practical for me. Honestly, I even feel time-starved most weeks.

Then I remembered a story I’d once heard about a famous American pop star who called Mother Teresa and said she wanted to come work with her in India. Mother Teresa (always the voice of reason) said this: start in your own backyard.

That’s when my idea began to grow and it went something like this: I’ll start with one tiny act of kindness, then (inspired by a friend who did this) I’ll do one tiny act for every year I’ve been alive—sort of like paying God back for all of my blessings. Hmmm. Not bad … but will my 32 (give-or-take : -) acts make an impact? Then the best thought of all occurred to me: what if I could get some help? What if WE could start a movement??! The holiday season is the PERFECT time!

So here’s the plan—which is 99 percent hope and prayer that someone … anyone … will join me:

• Over the next 30 days or so, conduct 1 Tiny Act of kindness (or more)! One per day??

• Post it on MY Facebook page with this hashtag: #1TinyAct (or email me: MarySzymko (at) Yahoo(dot)com)

You get bonus points if you …

• Post it on YOUR Facebook page, your Twitter or Pinterest account with this hashtag: #1TinyAct

• SHARE a link to this blog post (to inspire others)!

That’s it. I’ll keep track of our efforts, sharing your ideas and our progress here in this blog.

And, by all means, please share some of your ideas for these Tiny Acts. Maybe you’ll turn a stranger’s day around simply by buying them a coffee. Compliment a co-worker. Read to a little one for 20 minutes. Donate newspapers or cat food to a local animal shelter. Visit a shut-in or call an elderly neighbor. Take your child’s scout group (and some cookies) to a local nursing home.

Mother Teresa had it right when she said, “We cannot do great things on this Earth, only small things with great love.”

Help me spread the love?